


Divertimento

by Argyle



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-04
Updated: 2008-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:57:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The high note is not the only thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divertimento

Far beneath the console, beyond the jump seat and below the grille, the Doctor was whistling. This wasn't a peculiar practice in and of itself, and nor was it one without creative merit, but certainly he deserved a round of applause for sheer endurance: after he'd got through the combined catalogue of Rex Harrison, he plowed through Gene Kelly -- taking care to linger long and low on _Brigadoon_ \-- and then John Peel's playlist for February 17, 1982.

Here twittered a long, low note, accentuated by the cacophonic clank of metal on metal on tiny moving parts; there swerved a light chord, over and out.

Respiratory bypass took care of the rest.

He'd been at it for hours, tinkering away like there was no tomorrow. Which there technically wouldn't be if he didn't get the TARDIS's tachyonic polarisation module running again. Rose had worked out that last bit by herself, but a person could only suffer so many games of solitaire in the arboretum before the scent of Gallestemian swamp blossom prompted a steadfast shimmy into the Vortex.

"Doctor?"

His B-sharp hung on the air like a cuckoo clock stuck on one am. And then: "Mm?"

"If that tune has anything to do with pixies scrabbling round a coalmine, I'll be extremely disappointed."

A pair of natty trainers peeked out from the grate, followed by a long set of legs, a grease-stained torso, and a slightly baffled expression. The Doctor adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Wasn't pixies, was it? Or was it? Pixies aren't so, you know…" He pushed himself up with his elbows. "Beardy."

"You'll have to remind me to take note the next time we're crossing under a bridge."

"No, no. Those are trolls."

"Do trolls sing?"

"Yes," he said. And then: "No."

Rose smiled. "How about finagling an intermission?"

"No," the Doctor said. He rolled his shoulders, arched his back, and swung himself up to a standing position. Well, _leaning_ position -- against the console -- and an exhausted one at that. And then, "Abso-bloomin'-lutely."

"Tea?"

"And pink wafers, if we've any left."

"We do," Rose chirped, and took a seat on the floor. "Sounds gorgeous."

The Doctor spent several long moments gawping at her before he puffed out his chest and stepped from the room. Five minutes later, he was back with a tray stacked high with biscuits and place settings for two.

"I brought some of those other ones you're so keen on," he said, and pointed at a row of stubbly, confetti-doused chocosticks.

Rose crinkled her nose. "Blegh."

"Oh, did I say you? Must've meant me." The Doctor took an experimental nibble. "Slightly alkaline, hint of oxidized iron, one point two-three-three-three percent precious tritium." And then: "Blegh."

"Gone off?"

"I actually think they're power couplings." He pocketed a few, and then proceeded to munch down a wafer, top layer first, and then cream, bit by bit. It wasn't until he'd washed down the lot with two cups of too-sweet tea that he picked up where he'd left off: never before had a dalliance with "The Girl from Ipanema" sounded so water-logged.

"Doctor, _please_."

"What?"

"That's the third time today. Let's hook up my iPod, yeah? Listen to some proper noise. And you never know: you might even find something you like."

The Doctor narrowed his eyes, but couldn't disguise the hint of mirth which crinkled the flesh by each temple. "Are you insinuating something?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Mhmm."

With that, he stood and began digging through a dented footlocker which lay by the base of the console, and failing that, jostled empty a nearby satchel. Then he patted his jacket down. "Funny," he said, after a moment.

"Lost something?"

"Lost? Not exactly. Nothing's ever lost as can't be found."

"And I don't know how you can ever find your way out of the room."

"Hugely sophisticated point-by-point triangulation," said the Doctor. He sucked on the tip of his finger, then held it aloft as though gauging the wind. "Highly complicated, often accurate, occasionally horizon-expanding. And so…"

"La, ti, do?" drawled Rose, suddenly wondering whether the intrinsic qualities of Gallestemian swamp blossom included patience-enhancement.

"Now you've got it." The Doctor drew a neat kerchief from a side-compartment on the jump seat, and carefully, carefully untied it; inside sat a pair of iridescent cubes, small as pearls. He dropped down to reclaim his spot on the floor, took Rose's hand in his own, and dropped them in her palm.

"Um," she said.

"Picked them up at a boot sale on Bemareth Five. Here—" He mimed taking the cubes between thumbs and forefingers and setting them to his brow. "Just lightly. The program knows any song you know."

"It reads my mind?"

"Er, no. More like... Think of your memory as a great bank of filing cabinets. One for dates, one for directions, one for inappropriate thoughts you had about your Year 9 chemistry tutor—Ouch!" The Doctor rubbed at his ribcage. "Don't see why that was strictly necessary."

Rose smiled. "I'm listening."

"Right. There's one for every song you've ever heard. Ergo, it knows what you know."

"So it reads my mind."

"Dab hand at it, yeah."

"Which is supposed to expand horizons how, exactly?"

The Doctor let out a short breath. Then he scooped up the cubes, pressed them to his skin in earnest, and smiled. In a moment, he'd finished – it was hardly his look of plentiful self-interest that prompted Rose to follow suit. Oh, it was hardly anything but curiosity.

For a long moment, it seemed nothing would happen. But then with the swiftness of an August storm, the music fell upon her, within her, through every waking thought. Blaring, quaking, skull-busting music. It shook her idle ears, thrummed down her chest. It was horrendous. 

Rose shuddered, palmed the cubes, glanced back up into the Doctor's grinning face.

"So who's this, then? The leader of the Sycorax's kid brother?"

"Chap out of Finchley," the Doctor said, and pulled his sleeve back to examine a theoretical watch. "Another half-millennium, he's gonna be huge."

"Sounds like your average day on the M-25."

"Oh, I don't know. _Live at the Europan Pentopticon_ wouldn't have gone platinum sixteen thousand times for no reason."

"Michael Jackson still owns the rights to the Beatles catalogue in five hundred years, yeah?"

"'Fraid so. But you've never seen a hypo-green hover-Vespa advert until you've seen one to the tune of 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer.'"


End file.
